


Lonely Hearts Club

by Lady_Therion



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 05:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5485913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Therion/pseuds/Lady_Therion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Storybrooke. Recently divorced Belle French attends a singles support group hoping to regain the one thing she lost: her courage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely Hearts Club

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notalwayslate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwayslate/gifts).



> My wonderful giftee, notalwayslate, prompted "dating classes at the library."

*******

_All the lonely people_   
_Where do they all come from?_   
_All the lonely people_   
_Where do they all belong?_

-The Beatles, “Eleanor Rigby”

*******

The archives beneath Storybrooke Library are drafty and dimly lit. Somewhere, in a narrow clearing between the stacks, five plastic fold out chairs face each other in an uneven semi-circle. Five faces anxiously avoid eye contact as they pass fliers down to one another in mute resignation.

The fliers are printed on the backs of outdated menus from Granny’s. The words “SINGLED OUT” glare at Belle in large Comic Sans font, leaving a hot brand of judgment burning on the back of her neck. The paragraph beneath the dried up ketchup stain is just as painful.

Are you ashamed of being single? Afraid of putting yourself “out there”?  
Join us for SINGLED OUT.  
A support group for those looking for love…and are still waiting.

Sessions take place in Storybrooke Library  
Room 105  
Sundays at 7:00 p.m.  
(We have cookies!)

Feeling no less nauseous, she turns over the flier to look at Granny’s dinner specials instead. Then her cruel inner voice asks what her what the point of that would be…since she has no one to go to dinner with anyway.

In terms of stigma and desperation, Singled Out meetings rated second only to AA meetings—which coincidentally take place right down the hall. But her father insisted: she couldn’t live out the rest of her days lying around in old sweats and unwashed hair thinking about  _wasted potential._  She had to put away her mother’s books and pick up the job pages instead. Because for God’s sake, she still has a  _future_ to think about.

Then the clincher: “ _What would your mother think if she saw you now?_ ”

So despite her misgivings, Belle dragged herself from her father’s house, freshly showered with nowhere to go but the basement of the library with four other people whom she assumes feels just as lost and lonely as she does.

_God, has it really come to this?_

“All right, everyone.” 

The group turns to look at Archie. He is Dr. Hopper now, but Belle will always remember him as Archie. They had been in band together during sophomore and junior year, but hadn’t spoken to one another since she moved away after high school. It’s strange to see him in a tweed coat instead of a uniform, but then a lot of things have changed since she came back to Storybrooke.

“Thank you all for being here, truly,” he says. “I know this is…awkward. But I’d like you to know that what you’re doing here is an act of bravery.”

A polite silence from the group. Belle doesn’t feel very brave, and hadn’t for a very long time.

“How’s that?” 

This from Ruby. Like Belle, she always dreamed of leaving Storybrooke. But fate conspired against her somehow, and she was still working as a waitress at Granny’s. Belle wonders if Ruby had a hand in making these fliers…and if she still has her dream.

“I’ll get to that in a moment,” says Archie. “But first, I’d like to have everyone introduce themselves. If you can, please share your story. This is a safe space, I promise.”  

Nervous fidgeting all around. 

Belle doesn’t want to share her story. She doesn’t want to talk about the boy she met in Storybrooke High. Gaston Chevalier. The boy who was “going places” and how everything seemed perfect for them because she too was “going places.” Her then-life was trimmed with neat borders and divided into even, well-manicured squares.

Gaston had been one of those squares.

At any rate, Belle felt she had done all the right things. She had gotten all the right grades, achieved all the right awards and had done all the right extracurriculars. Her parents couldn’t have been more proud.

She was destined for Harvard. She wanted to see the world.

Then Gaston joined the army. He was destined for Florida.

Belle decided to go with him. And marry him too—she could still see the world later and could always reapply to school. This was what she told her mother who, for the first time in her life, told her that she was disappointed in her choices. And though Belle didn’t know it then, she was disappointed in herself too.

That would not be the last time.

Disappointment is a poison Belle swallows in daily spoonfuls and occasionally chases with strong doses of anger. Her life is no longer made of neat squares. Instead, she wanders a dark and unrelenting maze that stretches on forever.

“Belle, would you like to go first?” 

Everyone turns to her and Belle tries not to squirm. There was a time in her life when the right answers easily came to her, just waiting in a single file line at the tip of her tongue. She wants to speak, but the words don’t come. Because the truth is a tangle of knots in her chest, the truth that contains all her fears and failures.

She is afraid of what would happen if she gives it a voice.

“I think I’ll pass tonight,” she says quietly.

Archie’s gentle and reassuring smile only makes her feel worse.  _What the heck am I doing here?_  She wants to crawl under a rock and die.  

“That’s perfectly all right. Anyone else?”

A short pause.

“I guess I’ll go first.”

This from Victor, now known as Dr. Whale. Belle remembers him as being very popular throughout school. He was on the rugby team with Gaston, and was almost never without a girlfriend. Belle always thought he’d be happily married by now. 

Though the same could be said for her.  

“I guess you could say that I have a reputation as a horn dog.” He blushes hard. “I hit a low point when I overheard one of the nurses say that I was a love ‘em and leave ‘em type. Really afraid of commitment, you know? I never thought of myself this way, but it got me thinking…well, what if I am? I never seem to have trouble with getting dates, but they never really go anywhere. In the end, they’re the ones who always leave  _me_.” 

“I know how you feel,” says Ruby. “Everyone knows me as the girl who likes to have fun—and  _I do_. But it’s like no one can see past my boobs and makeup. I  _know_  what people say about me. I know they think all I’m ever good for is a one-night stand. But to be honest? I haven’t had sex in, like,  _five_ years. Maybe some good makeout sessions here and there. But I’m not the type to go all the way unless it’s someone who’s worth it. I just haven’t found him and I’m worried that it’s because of the way people see me. I mean, should I change who I am just because I want a real relationship?”

“Of course not.”  

This from a young man Belle doesn’t recognize, but there is something about him that seems vaguely familiar. It’s rare to see strangers in Storybrooke. Belle wonders if he is a “transplant” (which is the Storybrooke way of saying out-of-towner).

“My name’s Neal,” he says. “I moved here about a month ago for some personal reasons I can’t really talk about. I guess I came here tonight because I didn’t know where else to go. I just know that I’m tired of being alone. But yeah…it’s like I’ve been cursed or something. And everyone can see it. No matter how hard I try to tell myself otherwise, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong with me.”

“That’s it,” says Victor. “That’s exactly it.”

“Right on the money,” adds Ruby. 

“Well, we thank you for being with us Neal,” says Archie. “This goes for all of you. I know from, ah,  _personal_  experience that being alone can be very painful. Neal called it a curse. I think that’s a very apt metaphor. As singles, we often ask ourselves ‘What’s wrong with me?’ and it’s a very toxic question. You tend to fixate on all your perceived faults and start to believe that you are unlovable.” 

“But what if you  _are_ unlovable?” 

The group turns to the doorway and the room temperature suddenly drops by about several dozen degrees.

Now  _here_ was a face Belle had yet to see when she moved back to Storybrooke: Mr. Gold, the formidable landlord who owned most of the town and still ran a pawnshop on Main Street.

Belle remembers many long ago first-of-the-months when Mr. Gold would stop by their house to collect the rent. She would watch him from her window, and note how his cold smile never seemed to reach his eyes.

 _Thank you, dearie_ , he would say. The words always made everyone shiver. But to Belle they were just words. Just like Mr. Gold was just a man—albeit a very mysterious and reclusive man. 

Strangely enough, Mr. Gold was one of the few faces she’d seen that hadn’t changed at all in the last several years. He may have been a little greyer around the edges, but even then it is as if time stood still. He even wore the same dark suit and carried the same gold-tipped cane.

Abruptly, Neal stood up. “Sorry, I have to go.”

Archie sputters. “Neal…?”

But he was already on his way out. Even more odd is the way Mr. Gold glances at Neal as he brushes past him. It lasts for maybe half a second, but Belle sees a flash of agony. She knows that look. It was a look that says,  _I’m sorry. Please don’t leave_. She has seen in it on herself in the mirror of her living room in Florida, when Gaston shut the door on their marriage for the final time. 

Gold is much better at recovering than she is, however. Because not a moment later, he turns to the rest of the group and says, “Pardon me for the intrusion. But I believe you have an open seat.”

Another round of nervous fidgeting.

“I…yes,” says Archie. “Please have a seat, Mr. Gold.”

So he does, taking Neal’s place as though he’d always been there. No one seems to know what to say. It was as if they were waiting for Gold to speak. He always _did_  have a knack for gaining the first word and the last.

“I’m afraid you never answered my question,” he says. 

Archie pales. “I’m sorry?”

“What if you’re unlovable?” Then Gold elaborates. “What I mean to say is…what if you find that you’re undeserving of other people’s affection? What hope is there for you then?”

Such pointed questions asked with such equal bluntness. Belle has to give Gold credit. He really didn’t waste time messing around.

“Ah, well.” Archie takes off his glasses and begins to clean them. Belle remembers that he often did that when he was nervous. “These are all good questions, Mr. Gold. But I believe that everyone is capable of love. It’s what makes us human, after all. And because of this, everyone deserves to be loved in return. Even if they haven’t found someone yet. Anyone who doesn’t subscribe to this idea isn’t lacking in anything, save maybe some self-compassion.”

It’s a valiant response and an honest one. Belle wouldn’t have expected anything less from Archie. Mr. Gold, true to form, doesn’t let on whether he believes it or not. In fact, he looks almost bored. She notices that Archie doesn’t invite him to share his story. Instead he stands up and addresses the group.

“All right everyone. We can end the session here. Again, I appreciate all of you attending. That said, I’d like to leave you all with a little assignment. This week, I’d like each of you to reach out to someone you don’t know. This doesn’t have to be romantic in nature. Nothing like that. Just get to know them better. That’s all.” 

Ruby arches a brow. “What are we supposed to get out of it?”  

“Call it an exercise in vulnerability. As uncomfortable as it might be, we all have to embrace our vulnerability at some point. You’d be surprised at how little gestures like these can help you in the long run with self-acceptance—which, by the way, will be the subject of next week’s meeting. Until then, folks. Oh, and don’t forget to take a cookie on your way out.”

One by one, they each shuffle through the empty corridors before walking their separate ways into the empty streets and the cool spring night air. Belle had forgotten how early the town went to bed. It is barely half past eight and there’s almost no one in sight.

“Miss French.” 

Belle fights the urge to squeak and congratulates herself when she is able to say, “Yes?” in completely reasonable decibels. This is Mr. Gold after all. 

He seems to hesitate.  _Hesitate? Mr. Gold **hesitating**?_  “It’s not…that is say…” He takes another deep breath. “I only wanted to welcome you back home. It’s been quite a while since the town saw you last.”

Belle wraps her arms around herself. “No. Not too long actually.”

The last time she was home was for her mother’s funeral.

Mr. Gold seems to realize this and for a moment Belle thinks he looks….what?  _Frustrated? Embarrassed?_

“Forgive me. Tact wasn’t always my forte.” 

“It’s all right,” says Belle. “I’ve, ah, just moved back in my with my father a few weeks ago.”  _When the divorce papers were finalized._  “I’ve just been looking for a place. A job. You know, that sort of thing.” 

She prays that he won’t ask for an explanation. She doesn’t want to explain how she failed at her marriage. She doesn’t want to explain how her only option was to come back home with her tail between her legs. She doesn’t want to explain how Belle, the girl who was once “going places” was now just Belle, the girl who ended up back at square one.

But to her surprise, Gold doesn’t ask for an explanation. Instead he says, “Well, if you need a list of available flats...I happen to know a  _particular_ landlord who is looking for some new tenants in the garden district. He’s a bit of a curmudgeon, and is quite strict when it comes to collecting debts, but outside of that…well…” Here, he winks and Belle can’t help but laugh.  _God, how long has it been since she **laughed**?_  “He’s fair, that’s all I can say.” 

“Thank you,” she says. Though she doesn’t quite know exactly what she’s thanking him for. “But I think I can manage on my own. I always do.”

“Are you sure? I can guarantee that this _particular_  landlord would be willing to offer rent at a reduced rate. Plus, the garden district has one of the best views of the harbor.”

Had Mr. Gold always been this… _charming_? Or was Belle just so desperate for human contact that any conversation longer than ten minutes was enough to satisfy her craving? Belle didn’t have many friends here in Storybrooke, so the bar she set in terms of platonic expectations was fairly low. 

“Tell me, Mr. Gold. Why would this  _particular_  landlord wish to be so generous? Especially with someone he doesn’t know very well?”

“Ah.” He averts his gaze to the sidewalk. “I’d say you could call it one of his rare benevolent acts. Not many of our children here in Storybrooke return once they go, after all. You’re one of the very few special cases.”

It’s an odd comment to make. But then, this  _is_ Storybrooke. Odd  _is_  in its nature.

“Also,” Gold continues, “It’s a rather pitiful gesture at following through with an assignment. Because this  _particular_ landlord is always very serious about following through to the bitter end. And since we’re supposed to reach out to someone we don’t really know…”

Oh. 

_Oh!_

“It’s a very much appreciated gesture, Mr. Gold. But…you could have just as easily had me over for some coffee. Or tea, even. No need to bribe me with lavish properties.”

The joke seems to fall flat.

“Ah.”

Above them, the clock tower chimes nine times. Neither of them says anything in the resounding silence. Belle wonders if she has ruined a perfectly good moment. She wonders why she has grown so hellishly awkward over the years. She wonders if Mr. Gold will stop gaping at her and walk away. She wonders if she should do so first and save herself some dignity.

But instead, Gold asks, “How about tea this Saturday then?”

Again, that cruel inner voice.  _Seriously? What’s gotten into you? How much lower can you go? Do you know what people might say? What people might **think**? You’re just getting over a divorce!_

But Gold looks so earnest that Belle can’t bear to refuse him.

Because honestly? It’s just tea…and nothing seems so bleak after a cup of tea.

“Sure. I’ll see you Saturday? At the shop.” 

He smiles. A genuine smile. Not one of those feral grins he uses whenever he plays mind games with people who are  _overdue_. Belle wishes she could tell him how much that smile becomes him. But instead, she wishes him goodnight and they both part ways at the street corner—each one of them, unknowingly, bearing a small and fragile hope inside.

*******

“So when was the last time  _you_  had sex?”

Belle chokes on her coffee.  

“That’s not an entirely appropriate question to ask in the middle of the diner,” says Victor as he browses through Granny’s menu. “You know,  _out loud_ and all where other patrons can hear you. Also, what do you think of this Belgium waffle special? Think we should split it?” 

Ruby makes a dismissive gesture, as though she were trying to swat his words of wisdom away. “Please. How long have we each known each other now? And anyway, I thought the point of these outings was to strengthen our fraternal bond as fellow losers, or whatever. What’s the point of being friends if you don’t feel comfortable asking the tough stuff?”  

Victor rolls his eyes. 

“I think I’d rather save the sex talk for our next Singled Out,” says Belle. “Also yeah, I’ll split that waffle with you.”

It has been three whole months since their first meeting. That’s  _twelve_ Sundays-worth of navigating an emotional minefield where every square inch was teeming with spring traps and shrapnel. Everyone shared their wounds. Everyone shared their battle scars. Everyone who came to the group anyway.

For the most part, the group consisted of Belle, Ruby and Victor. Ruby dubbed them “the regulars.” More often than not, the fourth spot in the group remained open—though Neal and Mr. Gold did drop in once in a while. Though never at the same time.  

“Do we know anything about that guy?” says Victor after he places their order.  

“You mean Neal?” Ruby reaches over to pick at his hash browns. “Nah, no clue. Here Belle, have one.”

Belle declines and takes another bite of her toast instead. “I see him around town, but I don’t know that he actually works anywhere or lives with anyone. He could just be visiting.” 

“Don’t know,” says Victor. “Three months is a long time to ‘just be visiting’. I mean, there’s only so many  _attractions_  around Storybrooke.” He clears his throat. “And by attractions, I mean places for which people can engage in many recreational activities, not a dig at the physical attributes of the available townsfolk. Just to be clear.”

It’s Ruby’s turn to roll her eyes. 

“He’s a mysterious dude, I’ll give him that.” Then she turns to Belle with a patented glint in her eye that practically screams,  _I am about to ask you another somewhat uncomfortable question._  “So, how’s your weekly tea time with Mr. Gold?” She punctuates the words “tea time” with a faux-British accent. “Still going strong?”

Like clockwork, actually, but Belle doesn’t say this out loud. Instead she gives them a coy smile and says, “Yes, very much so.”

But it  _is_  very much so. Much more than Belle ever expected from what started as a little assignment.

Because for the last three months since Belle moved back home, she felt as though her life was untended and enclosed. The neat squares and the dark maze…all of that was part and parcel of the walls she built around her broken and damaged self. 

But being with Gold could make her forget all that.

And though she knows that she can share this with Ruby and Victor…who have told her about their own walls, extensively...she chooses not to.

Not because she doesn’t trust them. They are one of the few people she  _can_  trust, after all.

But what she is beginning to share with Gold is private…tentative…anyway, it is far too early to expose whatever it was that lay between them. It didn’t feel romantic to Belle, not really. At least not in the way it always seems to go in the movies. Where there is always love at first sight. And a battle for someone’s heart. And two victors in the end. And violins. And happy endings.

Belle is too old for happy endings.

“ _That’s all right, dearie,_ ” Gold had said. “ _I’m certainly too old for them too_.” 

So instead they both settle for this…. _this_. Belle doesn’t even know how to begin to describe  _this_. How exactly is she supposed to say that coming to Mr. Gold’s shop feels like coming home? It is a completely and utterly ordinary feeling. But a feeling, nonetheless, that had missing from her life until now. Why is it that she seems to regain a sense of refuge and relief when she was around him, and only him? 

“I think you two would make such a cute couple,” says Ruby. “He’s so into you, by the way.  _Anyone_  can see it.”

“Or they could just be very good friends,” says Victor. “There’s no rushing into anything after all. You take your time Belle. After all, we’d miss you if you decided to not come to our meetings.” 

*******

They are deep into winter by the time Belle tells Gold about her divorce.

She doesn’t know why it comes out. It just does.

“It was an envelope,” she tells him. “I found it in the glove compartment of his car. I was looking for my cell phone and there it was. You want to know the real reason why I was angry? It wasn’t even because he was having an affair. We were way past that point when I found out anyway.”

Gold only nodded and poured her more tea.

“I was angry with him because it was so goddamned  _cliché_. I mean…his  _secretary_? What was this? A 90s rom-com? I had honestly never felt so disgusted with myself. With him. I had given up so much already. And he just…I don’t know.” 

And that’s it, really. She just  _doesn’t know._  Because really, how could she? How could she know that her marriage was slowly coming apart at the seams? How could she know that the reasons why it did were because the two of them were so fundamentally different? How could she know they were more enamored with the parts they were supposed to play, versus getting to know who they really were beneath the surface? How could she know that they both have been secretly blaming each other for not following their own dreams? How could she know that the only possible outcome out of all of this was for them to break each other? To shatter each other into a million little pieces? 

_God, hindsight is such a **bitch.**_

She tells all of this to Gold, who doesn’t say a single word. Instead, he grasps her hand and holds it as though it is a precious and fragile bird. _It’s okay, I’m here. You can tell me anything. I won’t run away._

Belle doesn’t run away either. Not on the one night when he finally tells her about his own family.

They have finally graduated from the front of the pawnshop to a private room at the Versailles. He could barely tolerate Granny’s, so he booked reservations at one of the most exclusive restaurants in Storybrooke instead. There is soft music and starlight. They are also the center of attention. And all around them, people whispered.

Belle tells herself that this isn’t a date. It is just an evening dinner between two people who, against all likelihood, had become very good friends. 

“I had a wife once. Very long ago. A son too.”

“What happened to them?” 

“My wife left because there was nothing I could offer her,” he says. “I couldn’t blame her for wanting to leave. I wasn’t making much money then, and she had been seeing someone else who apparently could offer her the world…I’m not even sure where she is right now. Or if she’s even happy. No, who I worry about the most is my son. You see, I  _wronged_ him, Belle. I hurt him deeply and I can never take it back.”

It was her turn to grasp his hand.  _It’s okay, I’m here._

“It can’t be so bad as all that.” 

“Oh, but it is.”

“Is that why you think you’re unlovable?” 

He cannot bring himself to look into her eyes. So she brings his hand to her lips and kisses it.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know why I did that.”

But then…Gold smiles—that real smile—and says, “I’m glad you did.”

The rest of the evening feels warm and good and wonderful.

They still don’t know what to make of the tie between them. Yes, their  _tie._ That is only word that is  _close enough_  for Belle. It is a thin and luminous string, as delicate as a spider’s thread, and it runs from one heart to the other as swiftly a blood through a vein. 

How was she supposed to know that it would all coming crashing down soon after?

*******

“I can’t see you right now,” he tells her.

“Oh,” is all Belle can say. What could else  _could_  she say? What wise and comforting words could she use to fill in that aching gap in between their phone lines? No seriously. What more could  _possibly_ be said?

Then, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t ever want to see you. I just…something came up. I need time.”

“Okay,” she says. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”  _Sweetheart_. This is the first time he has ever called her anything like that in past half year. She is too shocked to puzzle out what that word could possibly mean. “I’ll talk to you again. As soon as I can.”

They both hang up.

Once again, Belle feels the darkness of that long and unending maze. It presses into her on all sides, getting narrower and narrower. 

Two weeks pass by, then three, then four… 

Belle spends Christmas with her father. Then New Year’s with Victor and Ruby.  Neither of them ask her about Gold anymore.

She still attends meetings, though admittedly she has much less to say. She tells the group that she is happy that she regained a little bit of what she has lost. She has found a new place in the garden district. She has a job as an assistant at the library. She is keeping her options in life open and that she still has a long way to go.

“Self-acceptance is a lifelong journey,” says Archie. “We all have our roads to walk.”

Belle just wishes she knew where that road would take her.

Eventually, Belle gets a text message.

 _I need to see you_ , it says. 

It is as though the uncertainty of the last few weeks didn’t happen. She grabs her coat and heads for the shop.

*******

She finds him pretty easily.

He is shouting at Neal. Or Neal is shouting at him. She can’t tell. Either way, the exchange is very heated.

She doesn’t know whether she should turn the other direction. Then Neal swings out hard enough to push Gold to the ground. She runs to his side at once. Her heels clicking madly on the pavement.

“What are you doing?!” she yells. 

Belle crouches on the ground, trying to help Gold stand. But he waves her away as he gathers his bearings.

Neal’s eyes are shining…with anger, with tears….Belle isn’t sure. He only shakes and trembles as he points at Gold. 

“Just keep him  _the hell_  away from me!”

Belle tries to go after him. To demand an explanation. But she feels a tug at her coat and she looks down at Gold who has never looked more afraid than he did at that moment.

“Belle…Neal is my son.” 

_His son?_

A shocked silence passes between them. Then, without thinking, she embraces him. He tenses, as though unsure. No, not unsure. More like unfamiliar.  _How long has it been since Gold was held like this?_ Belle didn’t care about the answer. All she knew was the bone-deep feeling that he  _needed_  this. Desperately. 

Slowly, as though he is afraid that he will ruin the moment just by moving, he returns her embrace.

“Let’s go inside,” she whispers.

“All right,” he says.

*******

That cruel inner voice tells Belle that this was a bad idea.  _How will it look?_  If anyone were still in doubt that she and Gold were an item, there certainly wouldn’t be in any doubt now. She was in the  _back room_ of his shop, for God’s sake! But for the first time, Belle doesn’t care about what anyone else thought.

All she could think of was how devastated Gold looked out there in the cold. The snow falling on his shoulders as Neal stalked away from him. 

His  _son._

“I owe you an explanation.”

He pours them both a glass of red wine on his workshop table. Belle tries not to comment as she sees his hand tremble. But she lays her hand on top of his when he was done. It seems to calm him and to her surprise, he squeezes her fingers as though they are the only things that would help say what he had to say next. 

Perhaps they were.

“Take your time,” she says.

“My son’s real name is Bae Gold. Neal was his middle name, something his mother gave him before she…” Another tight squeeze around her fingers. “Before she left us both. I could forgive Milah for leaving me. But I could never forgive her for leaving Bae. I told him his mother died. She  _had,_  as far as I was concerned.”  

He drains the rest of his wine.

“I made sure she would have nothing to do with his life. She had written him letters. She said she was sorry. She said that she missed him. She said that she regretted having to leave him with a monster like me. She wanted him to come live with her and that damnable… _her lover_. I wouldn’t have any of it.” 

Belle searches his eyes. “You were trying to protect him.”

“Yes,” he snarls. “And in doing so, I only pushed him away. I  _trapped_ him here, Belle. You have to understand how much I wanted to keep him close. He always talked about leaving Storybrooke. All the children here often do. I did everything in my power to keep him at my side. At first, I told myself that I was keeping him safe. I was convinced that his mother had no good intentions for him. Of course that was a lie. I just…I just didn’t want to be alone.”

He takes a deep shuddering breath. Belle moves closer to him, pressing into his shoulder so that he could lean into her. 

“I don’t how, but he found out everything. Even the letters. He was so angry with me, Belle. I had  _never_  seen him so angry. I tried to explain. That I only wanted was best for him. He called me a liar. He called me a coward. And I was. He told me that his mother was right. That I wanted to keep him shackled here to so that he could be miserable as I was. How could I argue? I wanted him all to myself after all. He was the only person in the world that was precious to me. Then he walked out, and I never saw him again. Belle…that was when he was eighteen.”

“So why did he come back?”

Gold shakes his head. “Hell if I know. It’s what I’ve been trying to figure out for the last few weeks. Every time I get close enough, he pushes me away. He won’t talk to me. He refuses to see me. No matter how hard I try…all I know is is that I lost him forever. When he ran away...I spent every penny trying to track him down, but he always found a way to slip out of my grasp. His mother certainly had a hand in helping him achieve that. She even called me once or twice to gloat about it. I don’t know what lies she has been telling him over the years. But now he’s here…and it’s almost even worse. I know that he’s hurting about  _something_. I can tell. A father always knows. And there is nothing I can do for him, Belle.  _Nothing_  at all.” 

She turned his face towards hers. “You love him. He has to know that. No matter how angry he is with you.”

“No, he just confirmed what I knew all along. Belle…I’m not deserving of  _anyone’s_ love. All I ever do is ruin everything I touch.”

“That’s not true,” she says.

“How can you be so sure?” 

She looks into his eyes, eyes that held so much fear…and yet so much hope. It is in that moment Belle knows that whatever she says next, Gold would believe her. She is perhaps one of the only people he  _could_ believe about anything.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly, stroking the side of his face. He leans into her touch as though it meant everything….and maybe it did. For them both. “I just know it. That’s all.” 

There is a moment where it seems like everything is taught, a moment that stretches seconds into eternity before the atoms snap and the universe collapses.

This is what it feels like when she kisses Gold.

Their lips crash into one another too quickly for either of them to be surprised about it. Her cruel inner voice raises the alarm.  _Stop. This is a bad idea. You’re using him. He’s using you. Stop this before you do something that you both regret_. Luckily, their heavy breathing drowns out the brutal litany. By the time they start walking backwards towards the cot, shedding more and more of their clothes as they go along, the cruel inner voice fades to a mere echo from across the shore.

 _You shouldn’t_ , are its final parting words.

She  _really_  shouldn’t.  _He_ really shouldn’t. They both know this. 

In fact, they are both probably going to regret this come morning. But if that were true, why did this…whatever this powerful and fiery thing was…feel so  _goddamn **right**_? Like it was inevitable. Like everything in their lives was just building up to just this?

Because God it felt so good to be touched…to be  _wanted._

And anyway, life is too short for shoulds and shouldn’ts.

Gold breaks away long enough to press hot kisses down her throat and sucks at her pulse. He is slow and methodical. He will most likely leave a mark and the thought of having everyone see it makes her moan aloud.  _Then she could **really**  give everyone something to talk about! _

Once she starts, she cannot seem to stop. Gaston had never been a fan of her vocalizing. Gold, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind and whispers a ragged “yes, sweetheart, let me hear you” against her wet skin.

Desire spreads throughout her body like a shockwave. Her blouse lies unbuttoned and she berates herself for not wearing one of her lacier getups tonight. Her skirt and pantyhose lay discarded somewhere on the floor. Gold was down to his undershirt and trousers and the only thought running through Belle’s mind besides  _“Oh my friggin’ **God** ”_ was how incredibly unfair it is that he is  _still_ clothed.

He growls…actually growls…when she coaxes him away from her neck. Just long enough to undo the rest of her blouse and unclasp her bra. She always thought her breasts were too small, but the way Gold waters at the mouth obliterates her self-consciousness. He is  _begging_  her for a taste and she knows that she’ll give it to him. 

But first thing’s first…

“You too,” she says cheekily. Tugging at his belt and biting her bottom lip.

 _That_ snaps him out of the mood. He blanches.

“Belle...”

 _That_  snaps him out of the mood. He blanches.

She kisses him again. Hard. Enough to steal his breath away. Enough to leave her dizzy.

“Show me,” she says, pressing her forehead against his. “I  _want_ to feel all of you. Please.”

Gold’s careworn face twists into an expression that is torn between his arousal and his anxiety. Belle melts with relief when the former wins out, and he begins to unbutton the fly of his pants and hastily whips off his shirt. He’ll want to move quickly, she thinks, so that he won’t give her an eyeful. Too bad. She isn’t about to let him off the hook that easily.

She pulls at his arm until she could get him to lay on his back.

“No, Belle…wait…”

“Shhh,” she says, pressing her fingers to his lips, which he then kisses in reverence. 

She takes a moment to take in every inch of him. But before he can protest, she traces every scar and every deep line. First with her fingers, then with her tongue and in some places with her teeth. Placing little love nips on his chest…his hip…his inner thigh…

“Oh God, Belle…” 

She feels him straining against her, clawing at the sheets as he arches his body up to meet hers.

Belle nuzzles the trail of dark hair that leads to his hard length. It is thick and arched with heavy arousal. She holds him steady as she licks the base of it, cradling his balls with her other hand as she did so. First grazing them with her nails, then following with firmer caresses. 

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes as her tongue makes it way towards his reddened tip, which is practically  _glistening_  with copious beads of moisture.  _God, she had never seen **anyone** look so lost in their own passion_! If she didn’t know any better, she would have sworn he was being tortured. But no, this wasn’t torture. This was  _rapture._

When she takes him into her mouth, the sound he makes is barely human. It is somewhere between a rough shout and a guttural howl. She is consumed by his taste and texture—it is sweet and salty and so utterly and unmistakably _him._

She works him into a frenzy, feeling his hands dive into her hair as he falls further and further into ecstasy.  

“Belle I won’t…I can’t…I’m going to… _sweetheart_ , please…I’m going to…”

Well, she knows  _she_  is definitely going to if she doesn’t stop either. It is all too much. She needs to have him  _now_. To hell with her hang-ups. To hell with the consequences. She is sick of being afraid, and for the first time since forever, she feels a surge of that old conviction. That streak of confidence, of hunger, of excitement that she gets whenever she was working towards something she desperately wanted.

God, does she want him.

So just as she brings him to the edge, she reaches down to take her slick panties off the side. Then she takes him inside her, all the way…until the both of them are lost in that radiant paradise. It was amazing how well they fit together, how well he fills the ache…and not just the physical ache, the other ache…the ache that was lying dead center within the chamber of her heart like a silver bullet. 

“Sweetheart,” he says, and that is _all_ he can seem to say, “Sweetheart…”

She rides him. Long and hard and deep. Her body shakes with every wave and every crest. Then suddenly she feels it…blooming between her thighs and then throughout her bloodstream. That joyous climax that peaks like a sun on a frozen landscape. She can feel herself coming, she can feel  _him_  coming.

They cry out at the same time.

Belle collapses against him in a sweat-soaked heap.

It takes them a long while to come down from their high.

They are two lost souls floating in a sea of darkness. But right now, they are together and that is all that seems to matter. They groan as they part from one another, each one loathe to break that  _sweet, sweet_  connection. But then Belle rolls on her side and Gold curls around her, making sure the blankets cover them both.

She feels him sigh against the nape of her neck, his breath stirring the sparse hairs there. He’s so close that when he finally drifts off to sleep, she feels his lips there…locked in a permanent kiss. It’s not long before she follows him, sinking down into a black and dreamless sleep.

Morning will come, and with it the cold clarity of what they had done.

But questions like, ‘ _What does this mean?_ ’ and ‘ _Where does this leave us?_ ’ do not cross either of their minds. Their inner voices are as silent as the snow-driven night outside the shop’s window.

Neither of them know where this road will take them—only that it was irrevocable, a one-way street with no return. The terror of a greater unknown awaits them both. For now, at least, though they couldn’t put a name to the fragile feeling between them, that beautiful and luminous link, they at least have each other’s arms.

And for tonight that is enough.

 


End file.
